Author Archives: reubenwoolley

sweet chariot, by Ruby McCann

I am not a silent poet

sneaking into the city      Prometheus

late again     and so close to Juneteenth

time stops      framing a lit up sky

not shunting burning coals

to Molls Myre      above Dixon Blazes

ancient master blacksmith’s      sit with Charles

and Margaret      fire-placed in perfect

swinging low clouds      like Gods

..

and Goddesses muse over theft     fuelling

fine fire and art      no cupids angels frolicking

or gossiping about who Jupiter’s off shagging

when you really need him      to be angry

as thunder      to bring rain

..

below in the shadows      a fiddling fiddler

offers flamed serenades    silent rhymes

of night and day cracking structures      snapping-hissing

popping sonatas      paid in grounded

capped coins on concrete      croons aromatic

fiery-smoking      haar-filling

blanketed-brassy-breathy tinny red notes

A Mother’s Sacrifice       wraps

itself around Glasgow mourning

..

and Scottish MSP’s refused to parlay

parliaments anti-democratic      jiggery-pokery

devolution walked out its metal on worlds stage

allying together      against rape clauses for…

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The breaking of borders, by Cath Campbell

I am not a silent poet

It is not the skinwalkers.
They were always from a place of evil.
It is not the appalled.
They will always object in the face of evil.

It is the every day spoken thoughts
of those who say the caged babies deserve it,
their self-righteous cruelty
crossing all lines in ultra high definition.

Land of the free you stand naked.
The border is broken. America is broken,
and no walls will ever save
the cracked conscience of your nation.

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Life Jacket, by Hazel Hammond

I am not a silent poet

The armholes are crusty salt damaged
the once plump body casing
sags, shows how it lifted
against the waves
and it smells 

when I go to the shore
resting on the pebbles of my home
I find them, not one but many
imported from far away
no price tags 

I see the movement, orange flashes
out to sea washed to the beach
weighted with a load
a cargo no one wants to accept
dead or alive

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Shujaat, by VK Shashikumar

I am not a silent poet

(For my friend Shujaat Bukhari, Editor of Rising Kashmir who was assassinated recently in Srinagar, Jammu & Kashmir.)
..
Mountains with memories watch
trespassers of vulnerabilities
drawing blood from brave voices.
Security vehicles run over
angry youth with dead dreams.
White vans, dark windows,
Provocatively masked young men
Crazy with unfreedom on the streets
Calling for bullets in return for stones.
Unknown killers on motorbikes
coward slaves of mayhem masters.
He was about to leave for home
the daily responsibility to readers
dismembered by 16 bullets.
She was standing at the window,
a bullet found its mark
on the mole above her eyebrow.
He was home-bound with milk
shot at his doorstep,
school-homework in his mind.
So many stories of fathers, husbands, brother, uncles
facing pointed guns,
pushed out of their homes
squatting *murgas* of the merciless State
with States’-men taking turns to rape
the women at home.

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When poetry is beautiful, by Bethan Rees

I am not a silent poet

These children need a lullaby
with soft and gentle petals wiping the dew

drops from their foreheads.
Crockery bones encased in ceramic skin
porcelain fingers grasp for tenderness
and are met with the rasp of metal scrapes.

When poetry is beautiful

These children’s cries are as real
as the richness of images it conjures –
Firework lights of bright flowers meeting joy
fill the sky and rain down like bullets.
Piercing screams and skin the same.

These children don’t need an anthem.

These children need a lullaby.

..

Bethan Rees is from Swindon, England, though is originally from Neath, Wales. She works full-time  in admin and also studies an MSc in Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes. She hopes to use this in the future to be a “less silent” poet! You’ll usually find her clinging to any spare time she has by napping with her super supportive partner and ancient…

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Silencing, by Jose Varghese

I am not a silent poet

Bullets find targets
slower
when all talk seems
harmless.

Words, when
let out on a rainy-day,
dash for a while,
stop to scamper
through charred wood,
pant, bark,
craving for a real pat.

Guns don’t
take aim at them.
A poke on
their butts in jest
is all that’s done,
to see if
the creatures
turn around.

Some do,
wag tails and jump up
to catch what’s
thrown upwards,
munch it, in
mindless meditation
before running
back to their masters.

Some run for life.

But some
piddle on the barrels,
quench all the fire,
before running where
they were headed,
not looking back
even once.

That’s when
their masters
are searched out,
and it takes no time
before guns get
positioned promptly
from the dark,
and bullets come
swooshing,
destined to meet
the target
before it’s late.

..

Jose Varghese is a bilingual writer/editor/translator from India. He is the author…

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America is not great, by Colin Davies

I am not a silent poet

I once aspired to be you
or at least just like you.
You were cool
rebellious,
you stuck it to the man,
man.
You gave flowers to soldiers
and young men to wars.
But your hamburgers were legend
and your cities…
They were so tall.
I never knew the history
only the Hollywood statue.
Dreaming of walking on your land,
being invited in for apple pie,
and root beer.
But now,
I look over at you
and what you have become.
Cruel and detracted.
Give me your poor,
no more.
Tired huddled masses,
yearning to breathe with the free.
But the flaming lamp,
by the golden door,
has long been extinguished.
Refused at your teeming shore.
No more dreams,
not from me.
I long no more,
for the land of the free.
I long no more,
for the home of the brave.
As I don’t see bravery,
In keeping kids…

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